


Idle Hands

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Sexting Lite, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a series of not-really-connected scenes featuring my two favorite dweebs being happy because I want them to be happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One With Dirty Pictures

There’s something about a phone chiming at seven in the morning, before Dolls is even _thinking_ about being at the station—sometimes, you just gotta know when to adapt, and neither Wynonna nor the Revs seem to wake up before noon—that’s strangely ominous.  He hesitates for half a beat to steal himself before unlocking it and seeing the notification is a text from Wynonna.  Which isn’t doing much to ease his anxiety.  He opens it, fully expecting the apocalypse (or at least to learn she’s been arrested… again), and instead gets an eyeful of skin and lace.  It’s actually, once the initial shock has worn off, pretty tasteful given the kind of nonsense she gets up to—white bra and jeans, Peacemaker and its holster, she’s got a hat pulled down low but he can just see the edge of her smile.  And, from the angle, he can tell someone _else_ took the picture, which is a worrying prospect.

It’s an upsettingly sexy punch in the face, the kind of thing that _shouldn’t_ make him hot all over but _does_.  Before he can respond, she’s sent another, this one from behind, and she’s got her hair pulled over one shoulder to bare her back, all sharp profile and teasing smirk.  In this one, he can actually tell _where_ she is, in spite of how dark it is.  He’s spent too much time at that desk not to recognize it.  Heaving a groan, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and grabs his jacket.

At the station, Nicole’s behind the front desk rubbing her eyes and filling out paperwork.  “Wow,” she drawls, smiling sleepily, “You _and_ Wynonna in before eleven?  What’s the occasion?  Whole town hasn’t been drugged again, has it?”

“Funny,” he huffs.  “She still in there?”

“Yep,” she answers, popping the P emphatically as she makes a strike on the sheet in front of her.  “I mean, I haven’t seen her leave,” she continues with an exaggerated shrug.

With a quick eye roll, Dolls dismisses himself and makes a B-line for his office door.  Inside, he finds Wynonna perched easily on top of his desk—clothed, at least.  Her smile widens as he shuts the door and she hops down, arms going loosely around his neck as soon as he’s within reach.

“Mornin’, boss,” she whispers sweetly.

“I just have one question,” he murmurs, hands falling to her hips.  “Does Doc _know_ you borrowed his hat to sext me?”

“Who do you think took the pictures?” she asks innocently.  When he starts to pull away she crows, “No!  No, I’m kidding, c’mon.”  She buries her face against his neck, laughing.

“Are you drunk?”

“Not any _more_ ,” she answers.  She sounds alarmingly dejected and he rubs her back out of habit more than anything.  He shouldn’t be encouraging this kind of behavior.  “It was Nicole,” she says after a pause.

“Hmm?” he hums.

“Nicole took the pictures.”  When she pulls back, some of his surprise must show on his face because she laughs, “What?”

“She _played_ me,” he hisses, scowling.

Still snickering, she presses a quick, gentle kiss to his lips before murmuring, “You’re losin’ your edge.”


	2. The One Where Dolls Is Hot

In spite of the fact that she’s a little afraid to think about it seriously because she might jinx it, Wynonna’s having a _really good_ morning.  Not even necessarily in the hot-damn-I’ve-had-four-orgasms-in-the-past-twelve-hours way—though that probably doesn’t hurt.  It just sorta hits her as she’s brushing her teeth that she feels awesome and light and she looks great.  Well, maybe not in that _exact_ moment, foaming lips and all, but still.  Her hair is doing exactly what she wants it to, her wild urge to actually wear makeup _totally_ worked out, and her jeans make her ass look _amazing_.  Honestly, what else could she ask for?  Unable to fully suppress a smile, she sidles her way into the living room of the apartment she spends _way_ more time in than her own home lately.  Just as she’s leaning against the arm of the couch, flipping idly through channels, the door swings open.

After all these months, the mere _sight_ of Dolls covered in sweat after a run shouldn’t still make her mouth go dry.

The fact that it _hasn’t_ stopped yet is only moderately disturbing.  Mostly she’s just distracted by the aforementioned sight.  Her brain goes to about the consistency of melted ice cream as he teases, “You’re looking surprisingly put together for ten in the morning.”

When she hops up on to the arm of the couch, he fills the space between her knees and she whines, “Dude, I look so _phenomenal_ right now I basically belong in a museum, so you’re not allowed to touch me.  Plus, you’re all sweaty.”  Even as she speaks, her hands slide down to his hips.  She’s _weak_ , okay?

She sees his eyes flick down to her lips before he takes a deep breath and shrugs, “Fine.”

“Wait!” she gasps as he starts to pull away.  He pauses and she takes the moment to lurch forward, smacking a hard peck to lips.  Tilting her head, she nips lightly at the spot just under his jaw that makes him moan softly.  She smiles against his skin, barest salty tang on her tongue.  “You should go shower,” she murmurs, but now that he’s right _there_ she can’t help but think to _hell_ with the makeup and the great hair day and the _everything_ that she’ll never be able to get reconfigured so perfectly.

“I should definitely go shower,” he responds, laughter on the edge of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhhh I just wanted Nonna to be having a good self-esteem day.


	3. The One Where Waverly Is Spying

It’s not like Waverly’s trying to sneak.  She’s naturally very quiet!  And the worn wood floors have been covered by a puzzle of mismatched rugs, a sorta reinforcement of the fact that this is _their_ home now and they’ll redecorate the whole thing until the memories are held at a distance by loud clashing colors and soft shag.  So, really, she’s emphatically not trying to be sneaky.  It’s early enough that she figures Wynonna isn’t up yet, as testified by the bundle of messy blankets on the couch, but just as she’s rounding the corner towards the kitchen she hears a low chuckle.  Her chest seizes with something very close to fear.  She freezes for half a moment before poking her head around the corner.  A rush of relief washes over her when she sees it was just Dolls laughing—and that relief is so strong it takes an embarrassingly long time to question what on earth he’s doing here.

In sweats.

Then it kinda hits her all at once that _Dolls_ is in the kitchen in _sweats_ laughing at something Wynonna is saying, too quiet for her to hear, and Waverly’s gotta cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.  Because there’s totally only one reason for him to be here this early and it’s totally because they had _sex_ , god.  _It’s about damn time_ , she thinks vehemently, peeking around the corner again just in time to see that Wynonna’s moved from almost all the way across the room to right next to him, arm low around his waist, and that’s… that’s weird.  Even at this distance she looks loose, relaxed, and Waverly sees her turn her head to— _awwh_ , press a kiss to his shoulder.

As strange as it all is, her heart melts a little.

“Are we eavesdropping?” is whispered right against her ear and she jumps.

“Shhh!” she hisses, feeling Nicole crane over her to follow her line of sight.  “I think they finally did it.”

“Oh, honey,” Nicole murmurs, hand sliding around her middle.  Waverly goes cold when she realizes what she’s said and she whips around.  “It’s been going on for _weeks_.”

“You _knew?_   And you didn’t _tell_ me?” she accuses, voice pitched low.  Then, suddenly crestfallen, she lets her shoulders drop against the wall.  “Am I blind?”

Smiling fondly, she knocks a peck to her forehead.

They’re interrupted by Wynonna asking, right next to them, “Hey, Dolls wants to know if you two want pancakes?”

Waverly cringes even as Nicole pipes, “Yes, absolutely we want pancakes.”

Before turning on her heel and walking away, Wynonna flashes them a quick smirk and a wink.  Still reeling, she follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the one where we see that I'm a slut for oblivious!Waverly. It's okay, Wave, u been thru a lot.


	4. The One With Dancing

It had only been a _joke_ , just after dinner curled up on his couch watching some lame movie she’s never seen but somehow knows the exact plot of—just a throwaway comment about how he never takes her out, he should take her _dancing_ , even though she can (silently, never out loud) admit that she’s kinda weirdly happy to just do _this_ forever.  It’s not like their lives really give them a chance for “dates”—and are they dating, anyway?  She doesn’t ask that, maybe she wouldn’t like the answer.  She’s not entirely sure what she’d even _want_ the answer to be.  It’s a joke, so he doesn’t respond beyond jostling her a little more firmly against his chest.

When she can’t take any more bad acting, she stands up and stretches her arms over her head.  Because he cooked and they’re apparently doing this domestic shit, she starts gathering their dishes and makes her way into the kitchen.  She’s elbow-deep in soapy water when he comes up behind her, leaning against her back as he sets his phone on the counter.  Music starts, soft and slow and unfamiliar and she barks a quick laugh when his arms wind around her middle and pull her close.

“I was _kidding_ ,” she groans.

Leading her in a slow sway, he hums warmly, “I know.  Dance with me anyway.”

“I can’t _believe_ I ever thought you were an emotionless robot,” she mutters, twisting with a put-upon sigh.  Wet trails mark his shirt where her arms land.  She lets him guide her in a slow waltz, clumsier on her end than probably is appealing—sue her, she doesn’t _waltz_.  One hand rests steadily low on her back as the other comes up to cradle one of hers against his chest.  He smiles and it’s too close and too much so she drops her head onto his shoulder and shuts her eyes and _might_ accidentally step on his toes a little.  “Dude, you’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t call me dude while I’m trying to be romantic,” he snipes easily, lips brushing her temple.

After a few moments of silence, she feels him slow way out of time with the rhythm and something big and warm swells up in her chest as she pulls back just a little.  “You don’t have to take me dancing,” she says lamely.

Snorting, he brings both hands up to cup her jaw and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips, and she lets out a shaky breath.  “I know,” he responds after too long.  It feels significant in a way she doesn’t even know what to _do_ with.  Biting the inside of her cheek, her eyes drop.

“Okay,” she breathes, putting some _needed_ distance between them.  “I gotta—”

“Forget the dishes,” he rumbles on the edge of a chuckle.  Grabbing both her hands, he starts tugging her out of the kitchen.

“I like the way you think, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Somebody_ requested Dolls and Wynonna dancing soooo...


	5. The Sickfic

Without exaggerating even a little, Dolls can say with absolute certainty that he’s never been this sick—honest-to-god _sick_ —in his life.  His lungs and head feel full, his whole body just aches and throbs, he’s shivering—it’s the worst, and he’s _never_ felt like this before.  It’s gotta be the fever that makes him call Wynonna, he never woulda done it otherwise.  He loves-or-at-least-really-likes the girl, but he never would have done it were he in his right mind.  Never would have subjected himself to that.  It’s just that he hasn’t even been able to make it out of his bed except to stumble to the bathroom for three days, and she’s been calling him and texting him almost without end.  He’d told her on the first day it was nothing to worry about, just a cold, he didn’t wanna infect anyone so he’d rest up for a day or so and be _fine_.  So, on Day Three, when he’s decidedly _not_ fine, he called.

He regrets that choice as soon as she lets herself in.

“Baby,” she says softly, pulling him out of his fitful sleep.  “You _reek_.”

Groaning painfully, he shoves his face into a too-hot pillow and mumbles croakily, “I changed my mind, I don’t want you here, go home.”  His lie is betrayed when she strokes a cool hand over his cheek and he tries to follow her when she pulls away.

When he cracks his eyes open, she’s giving him that concerned lopsided-smile that rests so uneasily on her face.  “Do you regret not letting Waves and me drag you along for a flu shot?”

“Why are you _like_ this?  I’m _dying_ ,” he moans.  He’ll have time to be embarrassed by the dramatics when/if he’s better.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, sounding sincere.  “C’mon, you need a shower.”  She tugs and prods and coaxes until he lets himself be dragged out of bed, and she winces at him a little when he feels himself swaying a little.  Taking his hand very gently, she leads him out of his bedroom and into the bathroom.  “Have you eaten?”  He grunts wordlessly and is weirdly satisfied when she responds, “So, no, then?”

Not waiting for a response, she drops his hand to turn on the shower.  Once it’s going— _deafening, painful, ow_ , _has it always been this noisy_ —she leaves and comes back with a plastic bag, digs around in it until she finds what she’s looking for, and tosses a tablet into the bathtub.

Pausing in front of him, she asks, “You got it from here?”  She waits for his nod before leaving him there, calling as she goes, “Try not to die!”

\--

In spite of the absolute exhaustion that comes with being upright, Dolls has to grudgingly admit the shower did make him feel slightly more human.  He’s still miserable, but the shower tab cleared up his sinuses at least a little and at least he’s not covered in gross anymore.  Shivering, he dries himself quickly—and probably not too thoroughly—and with heavy feet makes his way back into the bedroom, where she’s apparently been busy.  His sheets have been changed, anyway, and there’s pajamas laid out on his bed.  There’s this rush of fond _gratefulness_ that catches him a little off guard as he yanks them on.

“Hey,” she croons, leaning in the doorway, and how long had she been there?  “Come eat.”

“You cooked?” he rasps skeptically.

Eyes narrowing, she responds, “I warmed up some canned soup.  Don’t get crazy on me.”

He huffs a weak chuckle and follows her, lets himself collapse on the sofa and wrapping the blanket draped off the arm around his shoulders.  “I just thought you’d bring me NyQuil,” he mumbles dully when she hands him a steaming bowl of chicken noodle.

“I like that you have such low expectations for me,” she teases, dropping next to him.  “That way I can’t disappoint.”

Frowning, he doesn’t respond because his brain’s too full of stuffing to think of anything to say, but he’s pretty sure he should probably say _something_.  Instead, he eats the soup, and the only thing he can really taste is salt.  The heat soothes his throat, at least.  He’s aware in a muffled, distant way of her scratching his back as she flips through channels.  He manages to eat half the bowl before he starts feeling hot and queasy.  She must be watching, because she takes it from him and sets it on the coffee table before he’s even thinking about leaning forward.

Somehow, and he can’t be sure exactly when it happened, he ends up with his head on her thigh.  Her fingers massage his scalp gently.  He wants to doze off, he wants to sleep _so bad_ , but he’s pretty sure she’d never let him live it down if he _did_ (especially if he got snot on her jeans), so after a while he pushes up blearily.

“Back to bed?” she asks sympathetically, but she doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving at his shoulder until he picks himself off the couch.  Halfway to the bedroom, he starts hacking painfully, gripping the doorframe to keep himself upright.  Once he stops, she grunts, “Ew, gross.”

And right back to being insufferable.

He slumps into bed, landing face-first, and hears her snicker behind him.  Twisting onto his side away from her, he scowls, “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah,” she hums, handing him two pills and a glass of water.  “Take these.”  He does as he’s told, somehow managing to stay horizontal and not spill water everywhere.  She leans over him and lays the back of her hand over his forehead.  “You know you don’t have to be, like, dying to ask me for help, right?” she murmurs with alarming sincerity.

Pausing, he rolls onto his back and eyes her because there isn’t even a _shred_ of irony or amusement on her face now—she’s gone all soft on him.  “Wynonna—”

“That being said, I’m gonna go take advantage of your cable,” she interrupts, smiling.  Stroking her fingers over his feverish cheek, she drops a kiss to his temple.  “Also,” she says thoughtfully from the doorway.  “If I get sick, you’re _definitely_ dead.”


	6. The One With The Fire Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, this one's been hanging out in my WIP folder and I'm sure there was a point but I can't remember it now, so I'm posting it in here because I like the scene.

Once Doc leaves them with one half-full bottle in hand, Wynonna wriggles out of her lawn chair precariously and perches into Dolls’ lap, her added weight making his own chair groan, but the whiskey-warm kiss she brushes into his lips makes him forget that.  It’s still cold, but at least there’s no snow on the ground, and the fire’s kept him mostly comfortable to this point.  Her fingertips are freezing against his throat.  She chuckles into his mouth when he gasps.

“I’ve been waiting for _hours_ for him to leave,” she laughs impatiently, hands sliding down his chest and tucking behind his back.

“We could have just gone back inside,” he mutters.

Shaking her head so that her hair tickles his face, she counters, “ _You_ say I’m not romantic enough.  Here, we’ve got, like, a _fire_ , the stars, full moon…”  She’s fucking with him—besides, he said she wasn’t being romantic _once_ and in all fairness the things she’d been saying then were _filthy_.  (And, in her defense, this is _kind of_ romantic.)  With some small struggle, she curls so her temple rests on his shoulder.  It’s actually not a great position and her bony hip is kind of rammed into his stomach, but she wiggles again, and he’s able to breathe again.  He’ll count that as improvement.  “We need a vacation,” she murmurs.

“Uh-huh, that’ll happen,” he grunts.

“Just think, the beach,” she yawns, foot bouncing to a rhythm he can’t hear.  “Sugar-white sand, the sun, my inevitable sunburn…”

“Yeah, and the impressionable cabana boys, I’ve heard this fantasy before,” he snorts, smiling at her answering laughter.

“You’ll do in a pinch, I could teach you a few things,” she purrs as her head tilts to bring her lips and teeth against his neck.  Then, suddenly, she’s sitting up and crying, “Dude!  Shooting star!  Make a wish!”

His eyes follow where she’s pointing, where a smattering of distinct trails flash briefly across the sky.  He looks back to her, grins into her delighted smile, and thinks idly, _I wish I knew how that head of yours worked._

He rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose in mock disgust when she asks into his lips, “Did you make a wish?”

“You’re ridiculous,” he says instead of answering.  “Can we go inside now?”  When her only answer is a drawn-out groan, he slips a hand up her thigh, fingers tracing the inseam of her jeans, “C’mon, I thought you said you could _teach_ me a few things.”

Squinting at him suspiciously, she shoves his hand away.  “My sister’s in there,” she responds, nodding up to the house behind him.  “Plus, you can’t just ply me with sex.”  At his raised eyebrow, she amends, “Okay, you _can_ ply me with sex, but you _shouldn’t_ because you’re supposed to be the _good_ one.”


	7. The Cheesy One

It’s not like Wynonna needs Dolls’ undivided focus to live.  She is a fully functional adult woman, and she doesn’t need her whatever-he-is to pay attention to her 24/7.  In fact, she’s _perfectly happy_ being left alone at _least_ 45% of the time, and most of the other 55% is spent doing actual work.  So, it shouldn’t bother her so much that he couldn’t seem to leave work at the station, especially given what _work_ is.  But she had kinda hoped for a couple hours of pretending they were normal.

Plus, Waverly had been eyeing her all through dinner.  Well, when she wasn’t making goo-goo eyes at her girlfriend.  Which was kind of a lot.

Anyway, the movie was Nicole’s idea—a horror flick because their lives aren’t full of enough terror.  As they’re walking up to the ticket booth, Dolls checks his phone for about the thousandth time.  Scowling, she formulates just about the _lamest_ plan she’s ever thought up.

And that’s _saying_ something.

“Hey,” she says softly.  He grunts but doesn’t look up, swiping absently at whatever needs his attention so bad.  “Hold this for me?”  When he _still_ doesn’t look over, just gives her an _uh-huh_ and holds out his free hand, she tucks hers into it.

She’s pointedly not looking at him when he stiffens and she feels the full force of his stare on the side of her face.  After about half a minute, he breaks down in a big, warm laugh that _shakes_ through her.  Before she knows it, he’s got her pulled up to his chest, swinging her in a quick circle with the momentum.  “You’re…”

“If the next words outta your mouth are ‘a loser,’ I swear to god…”

“That’s not what I was gonna say,” he frowns earnestly.  His eyes flick down quickly and she never _stops_ being strangely exhilarated when he does that and—

“Um, hello?  Still in public, plus the movie’s about to start,” Nicole calls.

Wynonna flicks her eyes to the sky and lets out a long breath before launching up to smack a quick peck to his lips.  She falls back a second later.  When she looks over, Waverly’s holding her phone up and grinning wickedly.  After a pause, Dolls squeezes her hand and breathes into her hair, “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was taking a break from a rewrite of The Lost Fic I'm planning on reposting and
> 
> this happened.
> 
> Um, this is based off of that post but I??? cannot find it??? (If anyone knows the post and wouldn't mind linking me I would be eternally grateful because this loser searched for forever.)


	8. Pop-Tarts Are Serious Business

It takes approximately twenty minutes for Wynonna to get sick of being laid up on the couch.  She’d been released from the hospital with nothing more serious than a broken leg—and she’s told she’s _super_ lucky because those mad cool (her words) stunts should have come back to bite her in the ass a long time ago—but she’d _also_ been given a very stern lecture and an ominous warning about _training_ as soon as the cast is off.  Given how serious this all could have been, this would probably be a prime opportunity to do some real soul-searching.

Then again, that’s the sort of thing she tries to avoid at all costs.

She kills about three hours on trashy daytime talk shows before the lack of movement starts to get to her.  Just when she’s about to start pulling her own hair out, her phone starts buzzing, and she picks up before even looking to see who it is, “Thank _god_ I’m gonna _die_ here.”

“So much _drama_ ,” Dolls sighs.  “I’m at the grocery store—requests?”

“Beer,” she pleads.

“You’re not supposed to drink with your meds,” he says pointedly.  “Try again.”

“I’m not supposed to do _so much_ , babe,” she whines.  When he remains silent, she grumbles, “Fine, blue raspberry Pop-Tarts, then.  _Blue_ raspberry.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember last week,” he replies, exasperated.  “Just so you know—and I’m telling you this because I care deeply for you—blue raspberry Pop-Tarts taste exactly the same as the regular raspberry ones.”

“I—I have _never_ been so disgusted and offended,” she gasps.  “That’s blatantly not true, and I’m horrified that you would say something like that to me.”

“Uh-huh, anything else?” he asks blandly.

Heaving a long sigh, she mumbles, “No, I guess not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, like, very very little for the amount of time I been inactive BUT know that I'm working on something forreal! Based on [this post!](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com/post/150565105716)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm??? sorry this mess is not more coherent.
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I am always happy to talk about these nerds. Or if you have a specific drabble/ficlet/whatever we're calling these things in mind that you want me to write bc I will write them probably.


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